


Run

by whatcolourmyeyes



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Angst, Bad Decisions, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Praise Kink, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-02-22 20:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2519963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatcolourmyeyes/pseuds/whatcolourmyeyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki has one job: get Darcy Lewis out of the picture. He doesn't succeed the way the Allfather intended...</p><p>In which Loki Laufeyson was supposed to kill the rival mob boss' daughter, but failed miserably and accidentally kidnapped her instead. Where do they go from there... who knows? (We all know - and it involves sexytimes)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The fire is coming, so I think we should run

_“Get the girl out of the picture.”_

_It had been his sole directive, a clipped order through a throwaway cell phone that was followed by the harsh click of the boss hanging up._

_And Loki had oh so casually dropped his phone into the Thames as the line went dead._

\--

He looks up at the apartment window through his car’s rain-splattered windshield, a woman’s figure silhouetted by lamplight. His mark.

This isn’t her fault, really. Circumstances (see: fathers who don’t pay their debts to the most powerful mobster in London) are simply working against her, but the Allfather is a vengeful man, and payback is payback. Take something of his, and he’ll take something of yours.

Darcy Lewis’ life is the final price of a bloody transaction.

Loki slips the silencer onto his gun as he scopes the perimeters of the building. There’s a niggling concern at the back of his head, and he reminds himself that this won’t be the first woman he’s had to kill. His is not a particularly savoury line of work, and one becomes accustomed to less than savoury tasks. _It isn’t for you to decide who lives and who dies, Laufeyson. You are the bullet, not the trigger hand._ The thought puts him off-balance. He’s _reassuring_ himself like he’s some… some amateur. Loki shouldn’t need reassurances. He isn’t innocent; he isn’t sure he ever was, but he certainly hasn’t been for years. His hands are _dripping_ with the blood of Odin’s enemies (and some friends, too – one can never be too careful). But now, this stupid woman is giving Loki – cold-blooded, heartless Loki Laufeyson – _doubts_.

Killers aren’t _allowed_ doubts. They receive orders, and they obey them. And Loki is a _good_ killer. From the start, he had taken to his line of work with a level of ease that was almost worrisome. The Allfather, of course, merely saw it as an asset. He had picked him up when he was still a young street rat with an Eton accent and a dead mother. There was a debt there, one that could never be repaid. Some might say that Odin had pulled him into a worse hell than the one he had been living, but this isn’t a Dickens’ novel. Alive is alive, for better or for worse. This is something Loki has no doubts about.

Killers are meant to deal in certainties. _Life is life and death is death, and never the twain shall meet._

Loki takes a final glance at the woman in the window, standing still as a statue. He wonders if she knows that he is coming for her. Lewis was always an idiot, but his daughter must not be, to have evaded the Allfather’s attention for so long. Until now. Her father is a fool, locking her away like a princess in an ivory tower.

But he is no Prince Charming come to free her.

\--

It had been easy enough for the Allfather’s men to plant hints of an attack elsewhere, and by consequence, the security is at a bare minimum. The guards pose little threat, and Loki works efficiently. Once he has lowered the final man to the ground, he walks over the armoured bodies with careful steps. (Bloodstains are a bitch to clean.)

The moment he’s in, Loki makes a mental note of where each camera is located. The goal is not to be subtle – quite the opposite, in fact – and Loki takes careful, measured steps down the centre of the empty foyer, smirking to himself as he presses the button for the elevator. This is a reminder of the Allfather’s power. It is not the time for sneaking around in corners.

It’s a short ride to the fourth floor, and Loki pulls out his gun before the elevator doors have even opened. They make a loud ‘ping’ sound as they slide aside to reveal a trashed bedroom. The woman is still standing at the window, and Loki makes his way across the floor in two long strides before she’s even fully turned around.

His gloved palm is over her mouth in anticipation of her screams, while his other hand lifts a gun to her head. Loki smoothly spins them around to push her up against the floor-length pane of glass, using his height to his advantage.

Darcy freezes in shock, sandwiched between the window and her assailant’s muscled frame. He doesn’t utter a word, but her father only has so many enemies. It must be one of the Allfather’s men, here to deliver a – _bloody, deadly (yes, keep it cheery, Darce)_ – message. She struggles in the his arms, her cries muffled by his hand. _Oh Dad, what have you gotten yourself into? Of all the men you had to piss off…_

Loki has timed everything perfectly, but he lets himself get distracted by the emotions flashing across Darcy’s face, the comprehension setting in, the resignation. Right as he’s about to pull the trigger, he falters.

Darcy notices immediately, and she takes advantage of his hesitation to elbow downward, dangerously close to his groin region. His grip merely tightens over her mouth, hard enough to bruise, and she whimpers. It seems a silly thing to note when a bruise will be the least of her injuries in a few short seconds, and Darcy tenses, waiting for the sound of the safety clicking off.

_This is it, Darce. Have fun dying._

The part of her brain that should be pumping her full of adrenaline appears to have already boarded a plane to Fuck-it Land, and she trembles as she realizes that she literally does not stand a chance in hell; and they both know it. He’s taller, stronger, and armed with a gun. A gun that is currently levelled at her head. The stiletto hidden in her boot is useless to her right now, and she barely knows how to use it, besides.

The last remaining part of her self-preservation instinct compels Darcy to try wiggling out of her attacker’s grasp anyway. Her chest is squashed uncomfortably against the glass, and the line of his body is pressed firmly against her, practically immobilising her. She stills when she feels a certain part of her assailant respond quite excitedly to her futile attempts to free herself. The rest of Loki stiffens as well, and he’s grateful for the fact that she can’t see his faint blush. It seems highly unprofessional, and he wonders if he ought to apologize.

 _What you ought to do is kill her like you were going to do earlier_ , he reminds himself angrily, but Loki finds himself waiting anyway, his finger poised on the trigger. There’s something different about her: she isn’t crying. She looks terrified, but Darcy’s (wide, blue) eyes are absolutely dry.

And then Loki makes the stupidest decision of his career: he lets go.

The second he steps back, she lashes out, spinning around to slap him in the face. Stunned, he doesn’t respond right away, and knowing that this is no time for honour, Darcy kicks him in the balls before slipping past him and running for the emergency staircase. He is still a trained predator, however, and he catches her easily, wrestling her to the ground before she can take more than a few steps.

“If you’re gonna kill me, just do it, Odinson,” the woman growls. She can feel his breath hot against her ear, and she struggles uselessly against him, trying to throw him off. Darcy grows tired soon enough, and Loki loosens his grip on her ever so slightly.

“Laufeyson,” he corrects. _Force of habit._

Her heart only beats faster at the admission. Loki Laufeyson is not a name easily forgotten.

“Everyone knows who really raised you, whether you accept the title or not,” she replies. “You’re the Allfather’s son through and through. All psycho bullshit and no honour.”

“I could kill you,” Loki reminds her.

“You could. But you haven’t yet, have you?” His lips form a thin line. “I wonder,” Darcy muses apathetically. “Are you really so scared of murdering an innocent woman? I doubt I’m your first.” Loki smirks darkly at her attempt to sound calm and measured; her breathing is erratic, and even if he weren’t attuned to such things, her eyes are giving her away as they search for an exit.

Her words cut him, though; the truth is, she is his first.

_I have killed good and bad people, but never innocent ones. That is a kind of honour, isn’t it?_

“Your reputation precedes you, Odinson. You’re a killer,” Darcy spits out, the words coloured with disgust. He wonders if she knows what her own father does in his spare time, behind his patron-of-the-arts persona. “The Allfather’s prized hound, having doubts,” she mumbles.

“Maybe I just enjoy the thrill of this,” Loki suggests crudely. “You, defenceless and vulnerable, writhing beneath me…” The words leave a sour taste in his mouth, and he tries to ignore the bright blush that spreads across Darcy’s face. He isn’t blind to her beauty, all soft curves and bright eyes. If things were different, she’d be exactly his type- _Oh Loki, you sick fuck. She’s a mark._

“You know, it’s funny that you’d rather be thought a pervert than actually appear to have part of a heart,” Darcy answers, her cheeks still flushed. “Kinda sad, isn’t it?”

“It brings tears to my eyes,” Loki says coldly.

“Oh sorry, I meant ‘pathetic.’”

He doesn’t answer, lost in thought. Every second that Darcy Lewis stays alive is a mark against him in the eyes of the Allfather. She’s an unarmed, untrained 5’4” female. That she should be the one to make Laufeyson trip up would be an embarrassment.

And yet Loki can’t bring himself to shoot her.

_So you’ve made your mind up. You will betray the one family you have. For a girl._

_Bravo, Laufeyson. You fool._

“Roll over,” Loki lets out, lifting himself off of Darcy slowly. His weight supported on his elbows, Loki leaves her just enough room to flip onto her back and look up at him.

The first thing to strike her is that her assailant is absolutely gorgeous. It’s an idiotic thought, but with his dark hair and wild, green eyes, and those _cheekbones_ … he looks like a fallen angel. _And you sound like a moron. Come on, Lewis, get away from him. Who knows what he has planned?_

Darcy’s heart rate accelerates as she realizes that he might hold himself to his earlier statements.

“Get the fuck off of me!”

Loki is prepared for her defiance this time, and he remains stationary, his face blank as she beats her fists against his chest, screaming at him until her wrists hurt and her throat is raw.

“I swear on my life, Darcy Lewis,” Loki Laufeyson murmurs. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“ _Don’t_ call me that, you sick freak,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “We both know you’re here to kill me. Well, just get on with it. Stop playing games.”

Loki lifts his hands slowly, sitting back on his heels before lowering his weapon to the ground – it’s symbolic rather than practical. He could easily grab the gun if he needed to, and it’s far away enough that she can’t reach it.

“Please, Miss Lewis. I won’t hurt you.”

Darcy sits up, glaring at him. He’s polite for a fucking psycho killer, she’ll grant him that much. But Loki looks so earnestly into her eyes that Darcy finds herself wanting to believe him. _Oh you little fool, he’s the cat and you’re the mouse, don’t you see that?_

“What do you want, then?” she asks. “Money?”

“Money?” he laughs darkly. “The Allfather has more than enough of that. No, this is about revenge.”

“So you _are_ here to kill me.” She tries to scoot further away from him, but he stops her with a single look. _Bad idea, Lewis. Predators live for the chase._

“Ostensibly, yes,” he admits.

“The Allfather-”

“The Allfather wants you out of the picture, and I’m doing that,” he shouts defensively. She prefers this angry Loki. He’s less confusing, something that her brain can still recognize as a threat. It’s when his voice goes smoother, when his eyes soften, that she must be wary.

“What are you saying?”

“Darcy Lewis just died. You don’t have to.”

“And I’m supposed to do _what_ , exactly? Forget about London and fly back to New York? With no papers, no money, no nothing? Is that your offer? Is this you being generous, or are you just _really_ twisted? You’re condemning me to a fate worse than d-”

“There is no fate worse than death, Miss Lewis. This isn’t an offer; you don’t have a choice in the matter. You’re coming with me.” She’s grating on his nerves, and Darcy catches him clenching his jaw.

“And if I don’t want to?” she asks, no longer caring about the risk of his ire.

“What you want has never come into it.” Rather than raising his voice, it goes quieter, yet more threatening. “You can either come willingly, or I _will_ throw you over my shoulder and carry you to the car myself. Your _choice_.” He smirks on the final word, and Darcy simply glares at him. “Shall I carry you, then?”

“I’ll walk.”

\--

The motel is sketchy as hell, but they accept cash and their sort of clientele won’t spare a second glance for the tall businessman and the young woman standing behind him (his mistress, presumably). Seedy dives like this are ideal for trysts and affairs, not to mention other transactions, and the woman at the front desk doesn’t even bat an eyelash at the sight of Darcy’s bedraggled state, or Loki’s rather firm hold. She brusquely hands Loki his key and returns to her romance novel.

 _Looks like a real page-turner_ , Darcy thinks to herself, shaking her head at the image of the swashbuckling pirate in a ridiculously low-cut white tunic (hardly practical in a fight) and the fair maiden clutched to his side, her heaving bosom covered by her dress – or rather, what remains of it.

Loki tugs Darcy away, tucking her into his side as he leads her toward the stairs.

“Keep your head down,” he commands softly.

She obeys, letting the curtain of her tangled brown hair fall in front of her face as she leans back into him, breathing in the smell of his cologne. _Nice of him to get dolled up before coming to kill me. Only the best for you, Darce._

As he locks the hotel room door behind them, Darcy tries not to over-think the overall situation, but the issue of the _bed_ is one that cannot be overlooked.

“I would think you could afford better,” Darcy tells him, flopping onto the mattress, wordlessly laying her claim on it. There are lines that need to be drawn, and sleeping beside someone who just an hour ago was trying to kill her... well, that’s a hard limit.

“My apologies that the accommodations don’t live up to milady’s high expectations.” Loki slings his blazer over the chair sitting in the corner and begins to unbutton his shirt. The gun is tucked into the back of his pants, and Darcy lets out a sigh of relief as she sees him remove it and put it on the bedside table, in plain sight. He notices at once. “Still don’t trust me, Lewis?”

“Only as far as I can throw you, Odinson.”

“Likewise.”

“Likewise? I didn’t break and enter into your home and proceed to manhandle and kidnap you. I’m not the one who should be suspected of harbouring secret plans for murder.”

“Tell that to the stiletto in your boot,” he answers offhandedly, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and loosening the collar.

“What?”

“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” Loki moves closer until he’s looming over her, his eyes flashing. “I might ask what other weapons you have with you.”

“Live by the knife and the gun, die by the knife-”

“Not by yours, however.” He holds out a hand expectantly until Darcy bitterly tugs the blade out of her boot and hands it to him. “Are you hiding any other weapons, Lewis?”

She’s vaguely insulted by his treatment of her, as though she’s one of _them_ ; as though she’s used to hiding in sketchy motel rooms and walking around with guns on her person. Calling her ‘Lewis’ like she’s involved in her father’s dealings. Oh yes, she knows about them. Not in great detail, but the more she learns, the happier she is to stay partly in the dark.

“I’m not like you,” she whispers. “I’m not a liar.” _I’m not my father._ She rises to her feet, and, in a fit of momentary insanity, tugs on the hem of her dress, pulling it over her head in one fluid motion. “There. Are you satisfied?” She stares straight at him, challenging him to comment. But she winces a second later, realizing how she phrased that – and how exposed she is now. She can only be grateful for how Loki’s eyes stay trained obstinately on her face, like he’s trying _really_ hard not to look anywhere else.

“The bathroom is over there,” he says finally, nodding behind her. He practically throws a white towel at her. “There’s a fire escape through the window. Should you choose to leave.”

\--

Darcy towels herself off quickly before slipping back into her dress – it’s impractical, but Loki didn’t exactly give her time to change, and she doesn’t have anything else with her. At least she finally feels human again. She aches all over (no doubt the result of being crushed by a certain 6’2” idiot), and as she works the tangles out of her hair, Darcy glances at the fire escape, taunting her. She could easily slide over the window sill and disappear into the night, but what then? She has nowhere to go, no money, no phone… no one she can contact without alerting the wrong people to her presence.

“Dammit.”

She can hear Loki’s hushed voice in the room over, and she presses her ear to the door, trying to make out what he’s saying.

“I have everything under control.” _Ha! Sure you do, bud._ “Thor-” _Thor? Thor as in Odin’s HEIR, Thor?_ “Yes, the girl has been… removed from the equation.” A pause. “You aren’t going soft, are you, Thor? Why would I feel guilty? I don’t have a conscience, as you well know. It’s why the Allfather hired me.”

Not wanting to draw suspicion, Darcy turns on the tap and rinses off her hands before unlocking the door and walking back into the bedroom to find Loki distractedly snapping a SIM card in half.

“Bathroom’s free,” she mutters.

“Nice look,” Loki tells her, taking in her clingy dress and wet hair. She turns pink, which only makes matters worse; her blush quickly spreads to the tops of her breasts, visible thanks to the deep V-neck dress she’s wearing, and Loki finds it difficult to not be slightly angry at her for how tempting she is. If he could just have killed her, he wouldn’t be in this mess… and now Darcy has to stand there in the doorway, looking all gorgeous and totally unaware of it. _You’re an idiot, Laufeyson._

“You don’t look too hot yourself,” Darcy lies. In reality, Loki had managed to come out of their scuffle looking none the worse for wear, and with his white shirt half undone and his hair falling into his eyes… Loki smirks at her, shrugging off his button-down, and shamelessly pulling off the white T-shirt underneath. _Oh God, is it even ethical to find him this attractive?_

“Put this on,” Loki orders her, tossing her the cotton shirt in his hands before brushing past her and walking into the bathroom. He tries not to jump at the moment of contact. _Insufferable woman._

 _Insufferable man_ , she glowers internally.

(She still changes into the shirt, breathing in Loki’s smell as she curls into a ball underneath the sheets.)


	2. Checking out the coast is clear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No smut yet, but the stage is set. The players are ready. And I am really nervous. Enjoy :)

Darcy wakes up in a tangle of bed-sheets, blinking tired eyes as she takes in the sight of the peeling wallpaper and the thin sliver of light peeking through the ratty blue curtains. The alarm clock beside her flashes at her. _1:35._ She rolls over, sighing when she sees Loki. He’s still sitting in the corner, his head lolling against his chest. Trying to keep watch, Darcy realizes, though it seems that he’s dozed off. The chair looks uncomfortable – she’s pretty sure there’s a spring poking through the questionably stained fabric, and Loki’s arms are loosely wrapped around himself. _He must be cold._

She finds herself feeling sympathetic towards the man, a silly sentiment considering he was sent to kill her. But Darcy is known for her sentimentality; it’s why her father said she was weak, why he always treated her like a porcelain doll that might break.

(You might say he managed to break her anyway.)

Slipping her feet onto the cold floor, Darcy grabs a blanket from the bed and pads over to the chair, draping the cloth over Loki’s prone figure. His fingers grip onto the soft fabric, and he mumbles something, his eyebrows furrowing. Darcy finds herself watching him sleep – she reaches out to smooth his hair back out of his face…

Loki’s eyes suddenly jolt open, his hand catching her wrist before she’s really even made contact. Darcy’s breath catches in her throat and they stay in silence for a moment, Darcy crouching beside him, arm outstretched, Loki half-covered by the ratty blanket. Loki suddenly lets go of her and shakes his head.

“Go back to bed, Miss Lewis.”

Chastened, Darcy retreats back under her duvet, curling into a ball and trying to fall back asleep, but it’s no use. There are too many questions running through her head; where they’re going to go, what they’ll do once they get there… what will happen to Loki when his boss finds out. It’s ridiculous that she even cares about that last one.

The bed creaks loudly as Darcy struggles to find a comfortable position.

“I can’t sleep,” she whispers, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t say anything, but she knows Loki can hear her. “I’m cold.”

“Then take the damn blanket back,” he grumbles.

“No.” _Then_ you’ll _be cold._

\--

“Loki? You still awake?”

It’s 2:06. Darcy is in the fetal position, staring at the peeling wallpaper.

“Miss Lewis, so help me,” Loki says groggily, his voice tinted with the sleep that seems to elude her. It’s not fair that a trained killer rests easier than she does. “Go. To. Sleep.”

“But I-”

“Jesus Christ, woman.”

Darcy starts as she feels the mattress bounce beneath her, the springs adjusting to their new load. Arranging his blanket over both of them (he lies over the covers, as though being gentlemanly still matters at this point), Loki draws her flush to his chest. And rather than pulling away like she knows she should, Darcy’s body arches towards the newfound source of body heat.

 _Killer_ , her brain reminds her. _Liar. Odinson._ But Darcy takes some small comfort in the reassuring weight of his arm slung over her waist anyway.

“ _Sleep_ , Miss Lewis.”

\--

It’s 5 a.m. when Loki shakes her awake.

“Good morning,” he greets Darcy hoarsely.

“Hi.”

The duvet is bunched around her waist, and Darcy pulls away, trying to cover up how near see-through her (his) white T-shirt is. _Not like he hasn’t seen it before._ But she allows herself the moment of misplaced modesty. Loki doesn’t seem to notice. He stretches and yawns as he rises to his feet.

And then, quick as a whip, he’s grabbing a belt and slipping it through the loops of his fitted grey trousers.

“We should get moving,” Loki says, straightening his shirt. It’s a little wrinkled from sleeping in it, but the look suits him. He looks somehow more tangible, more real… _Not as much like he just happened to walk out of the latest copy of_ Vogue _, dressed to kill – ha!_

“We’re going? Already?”

“I need to get you out of London. Last night bought us a little time – Thor will make my excuses for me, and it’s protocol to keep one’s head low after a kill. They’ll assume that I’m avoiding your father.”

Darcy almost feels guilty about it, before remembering that it’s hardly her fault he’s in this mess. If anything, he dragged _her_ into the situation.

“Are they following you?”

“Not yet; it’s too soon for the Allfather’s men to check the scene. They trust me enough to believe the job is finished; they’ll wait for Lewis to retaliate.” Darcy isn’t certain that her father will really care. Perhaps on principle; not as a parent, but as a man who has taken a barb to his pride, a man who has lost one of one of his prized possessions. _‘Prized’ might be pushing it…_ Yes, he will retaliate, and it will likely be brutal. But Darcy knows that it will not be fuelled by love for her, but rather his own narcissism. “I need to get rid of the car before they do learn what truly happened.”

“So what’s the plan? Steal a new one?”

Loki grins.

“Of course.”

\--

“What about that car over there?” Darcy asks, pointing at a dented blue van parked across from Loki’s Jaguar (successfully hidden from view thanks to the row of bushes growing near the lot). Loki grabs her hand and flashes her a look. _Could she be any more obvious?_

Still, there’s something quite… sweet about her lack of guile.

 _You never lost your love of innocence. Fool,_ Odin’s voice mocks. _You’re in the wrong business for that sort of thing, Loki._

“Wait until we’re further from the motel,” Loki growls at Darcy. “And the blue is too conspicuous.”

“Right, cause ‘black paint job’ doesn’t just scream ‘sketchy as fuck.’ You’re basically announcing to the world that you work opposite the law.”

Darcy crosses her arms, shivering at the morning chill.

“Black is elegant,” Loki corrects, pushing Darcy into the front seat of his black-as-night Jag. “And common enough to blend in.” He slams the door slightly harder than necessary before walking around the front and sliding behind the steering wheel. “Shall we be off, then?”

“You’re not really asking me for permission, are you?”

“Of course not.”

\--

Darcy doesn’t ask why Loki stores spare jerry cans full of petrol in the trunk, or how he can throw a match onto the gas-covered black Jaguar like it’s routine. _It probably is._

The smell is awful, and flames lick hungrily at the sides of the car as Loki forcefully tugs her away, leading her back down the forested path toward their new ride.

\--

“I’m hungry.”

“We’ll get breakfast soon enough.”

“When?”

“Not now.”

Darcy glares at Loki’s reflection in the rear view mirror. He rolls his eyes. _Christ, she can be annoying._ It’s a thought that he clings to, a reminder that he hasn’t gone totally soft. (Even if he woke up this morning cuddling – _cuddling_ – his mark.)

“Where are you even taking us?” Darcy mutters sullenly.

“Newcastle.”

“ _Ireland_?”

“Of course not.” _You little idiot_ , his eyes add. “The one in England.”

Darcy grabs a map off the floor of the stolen car, flipping it open and tracing her fingers over the interwoven roads and highways.

“Why Newcastle?” she asks, tapping her finger over the little dot labelled ‘Newcastle upon Tyne.’ It seems like a pretty arbitrary choice, though at least it’s away from London.

“Airport,” he says simply. “Look up Woolsington. It’s where we’ll be staying.”

“Who the hell names a village ‘Woolsington’?” Darcy asks, squinting at the map until she locates the village.

“Brave words coming from _you,_ Darcy Lewis. Parents were big fans of Austen, were they?”

“Not sure you’re in any place to make fun, ‘Loki.’ You’re named after a Norse God condemned to have snake venom drip on him until he triggers the end of the world.” It sounds almost impressive when she puts it that way, and Loki can see the regret flit over her face. _As easy to read as a book._

“A fitting namesake,” Loki says with a dark smile. “Yours merely indicates petty pride.”

“And the capacity to change for the better,” Darcy replies defensively.

He shakes his head.

“You were never on the bad side to begin with, Miss Lewis.”

\--

It’s almost eight o’clock when Loki pulls up to a Tesco in the town of Wigston. _Seriously, what’s up with the names here?_  With a brusque “Stay in the car,” Loki locks the car and walks into the store. Darcy keeps her nose buried in the map as she waits.

After a few short minutes, Loki reappears carrying two shopping bags.

“Apples, cereal, water,” he lists off, starting the ignition and backing out of their parking spot. Darcy stares for a moment at the bags he had unceremoniously dumped in her lap. “Eat,” Loki orders.

“Do up your seatbelt,” she orders back.

He snorts derisively, but fastens his seatbelt anyway.

They drive along in silence, Darcy grumpily munching on dry oat clusters – straight from the box – and washing them down with generous gulps from her bottle of water.

“Aren’t you hungry?” she asks Loki, swallowing another mouthful. It tastes like sugary sawdust, but at least it’s food.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t want to get in an accident thanks to your low blood sugar,” she wheedles.

“Miss Lewis.” Darcy half expects him to stop the car for dramatic effect. “Do shut up.”

She does, though she circumvents his no-talking rule by passive-aggressively crunching on the cereal as loudly as she can manage, just to get on his nerves. Loki’s jaw clenches satisfyingly.

\--

“Aw, come on.”

“What?”

“Talk to me.”

“Are we not talking to one another right now?”

“See, this is what I don’t get about you.” _There are_ many _things about me that you probably don’t ‘get,’ Miss Lewis._ Loki trains his face into a mask of apathy as he braces himself for her question. “Why do you speak like you walked out of some posh prep school?”

“An educated killer is the hardest kind to catch,” Loki smirks. He knows what she’s really asking, but if she wants to learn more about his past, she’s out of luck. There are some things even the Allfather doesn’t know.

“Well, that was a bit of a dead-end,” Darcy mutters, idly wiping crumbs off the skirt of her dress. Goose pimples cover the skin of her calves, and she shivers a little.

“There’s a rest stop coming up,” Loki says abruptly, turning the heat up. “I bought us a change of clothes.”

Darcy peeks inside the shopping bag balanced on her knees and sees a pair of folded sweatpants at the top of the pile. They’re not exactly high fashion, but they’ll have to do.

“I’ll buy more petrol. And we’ll need to cut your hair, as well.”

“What?”

“Makes you too recognizable,” Loki explains.

At this point, it seems like a small concession to make.

Darcy wonders absent-mindedly if she’s become an accessory to a crime. She had always stayed outside of her father’s business dealings, but in under twenty-four hours she has successfully gotten on the wrong side of both sides of the law. The ‘not dying’ thing isn’t really her fault, but as for stealing a car… _Maybe the police won’t mind too much? I mean, I didn’t really help steal it, I just… stood by and complained about not getting breakfast._

Odin will undoubtedly be less forgiving. The dead are supposed to _stay_ dead.

\--

Darcy tugs on her new clothes in the gas station’s cramped bathroom stall while Loki tanks up. She pulls on a pair of boxers (also courtesy of Tesco), shoving her lacy undies into the garbage can in the corner. The navy sweatpants come next; they hang low on her hips, but they’re fleecy on the insides, and ten times warmer than her dress. A white T-shirt and loose black hoodie complete the look.

“Miss Lewis?”

“Almost done,” she answers, and proceeds to bang her elbow into the toilet paper dispenser as she struggles to put on socks and lace up her boots.

When she walks out of the stall, Loki has changed into his own grey sweatpants and a green sports jacket that is somehow flattering on him. _He’s too pretty for his own good._

Darcy washes her hands in the sink, taking in her own reflection. There are dark circles under her eyes, and a faint flush in her cheeks. And her hair… Loki had sliced the bottom two thirds of her ponytail off with a Swiss Army knife. Now, when Darcy shakes her head, the choppy brown curls just barely brush her shoulders.

“Let’s go,” she says, tearing her eyes away from the mirror.

\--

“Count to sixty and then follow me out,” Loki states coolly, one hand already pushing the bathroom door open. “I’ll be waiting right by the entrance.”

Sixty Mississippi’s later, Darcy tugs her hood over her head and starts walking.

\--

Some prick is behind Darcy, following her. His eyes trail over her figure with a lewdness that Loki would never permit himself, and Loki finds his hands forming fists.

_He has no right to look at her like that._

It’s a stupid thought, a simple twinge of jealousy that ought to be more fleeting than it is.

_Oh, and you do? Loki, the murderer? The hired thug? Are you any more worthy?_

\--

Loki is glaring at her as she makes her way to the car.

“What is it?”

He doesn’t answer, and Darcy realizes that the current look on his face is not really directed at _her_ so much as the general area over her left shoulder. She twists her head just to take a peek, and notices a greasy looking guy grinning at her. _Oh._

“Get inside,” Loki barks, his knuckles turning white as he grips the steering wheel.

“Jeez, put your hair on, Odinson. What’s got your knickers in a twist?”

“He was _staring_ at you.”

“Clearly you weren’t aware of the… _effect_ I have on men. And I look _ravishing_ in sweatpants,” Darcy says in a faux-sultry whisper, batting her eyelashes. No answer. “Loki, look, I’m fine.”

Loki keeps his eyes on the road, but his grip doesn’t lessen even a bit.

\--

The clouds have turned dark and it’s drizzling, droplets of water sliding down the side window as Darcy disinterestedly stares out the window, watching her surroundings flicker by. The car slows as they pull into a forested area, taking a right onto an unpaved driveway.

“Welcome home,” Loki mutters to himself.

“So this is…”

“Scenic Woolsington, yes.”

Darcy nods, and attempts to make significant eye contact, edging for more information, but not wanting to pry. Loki ignores her – he’s back to being cagey. Darcy can only hope that he has some kind of plan beyond whatever lies within the secluded cottage in front of them.

\--

“Is anyone expecting us?” Darcy asks.

Loki bristles at the question.

“Course not.” _It would be the height of idiocy to risk anyone learning our location._ “It’s mine.”

“Didn’t exactly take you for the R&R type.”

“Things at work have been stressful.” Loki’s lips quirk. “And I like to go for the unexpected.”

\--

“Do you actually stay here ever?” Darcy asks, folding up yet another dusty white sheet; they’re everywhere, covering all the furniture.

“If I did, do you really think you’d be here?”

“Oh, is your actual pad more of a ‘no girls allowed’ type deal?”

“Miss Lewis, I would only put you in more danger by taking you somewhere they can find. My apartment is the first place they’ll look.” She feels suddenly sick to her stomach. “This is a game of cat and mouse.” _And we’re the mouse._ She doesn’t think Loki is used to being the prey.

“Well, I’m not joining the game.”

“You’re already playing.”

“I didn’t _ask_ to be.”

“None of us do.”

“Us? There is no ‘us,’ Loki. You can’t… normalize this situation – you can’t pretend that we live in the same seedy little underworld and we just have to deal with it. That’s _your_ London, not mine.”

She knows that Loki spared her life, and that she should be, well, maybe not grateful, but at least not resentful toward him. But Darcy is scared, and wet, and he’s being so cold all of a sudden. So righteously or not, she’s growing angrier with him by the second.

“Miss L-”

Darcy cuts Loki off harshly.

“You bunch of assholes just had to drag me into this fucked-up little underworld of yours like I was your pawn. I _hate_ what my father stands for. I despise him.” The betrayal leaves a bitter taste in her mouth; it’s a truth she’s kept hidden inside herself for almost a year now, but it still tastes like poison as she spits the words out. “But you’re no better than the rest of them, Odinson.”

Loki’s eyes darken, and Darcy sees a flash of the man from last night – the killer who walked into her apartment ready to kill her.

“Don’t call me that.”

She can’t help herself from goading him.

“What? Odinson?”

Darcy shrieks when she finds herself pinned against the wall, Loki’s hand around her throat.

“Look at you,” she says, forcing a laugh though she knows well that it could be the final nail in her coffin. “Odinson through and through.”

“I’m not like them,” he spits out.

“Why? You think that because you spared one bullet you’re some kind of saint?” Darcy hisses. Loki’s grip isn’t tight, but that could change any second. She stares up at him, her blue eyes daring him to squeeze harder.

Loki looks away.

“No. There are no saints in Hell.”

He steps back almost mechanically, his hands falling to his sides as he stalks out of the room.

\--

“Where are you going?” Darcy calls out hoarsely at his retreating back.

 _What does it matter to you?_ he wants to call back, but that would make him sound like a petulant child: it would be undignified. She brings out the worst in him, Loki thinks.

“Out,” he says instead.

Loki can hear Darcy’s footsteps behind him; she latches onto his arm right as he pushes the front door open, tugging him back inside.

“Don’t-”

The door slams shut.

“Don’t go?” Loki smiles humourlessly. “You should want me as far away from you as possible.”

“Self loathing? It doesn’t suit you.”

“On the contrary, my dear, loathing of any kind _fuels_ me.”

Darcy pulls away from him, shaking her hair out of her eyes.

“Christ, if you hate me so much, why didn’t you just do it?”

“You’ll have to be a bit more specific, darling,” Loki murmurs. Like he doesn’t know. No one ever said he wasn’t a masochistic bastard.

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

“Oh, that’s not what you really want to know, is it?” he asks, feigning disappointment. “So predictable…”

Darcy lifts her chin defiantly, and Loki remembers exactly why he didn’t kill her – she doesn’t beg. Darcy Lewis does not shed crocodile tears and promise she’ll do _anything_ , _anything at all, just_ _whatever you do, don’t shoot_.

“God, why are you such an ass?”

“What do you want to hear, Miss Lewis? That the beauty tamed the beast? That a killer developed half a conscience?” His voice is getting louder, but she doesn’t step away. “ _Such_ interesting company you’re keeping these days.”

“I’ve been living with a monster for a year,” Darcy retorts. Loki raises his eyebrows. “Tell me why. What made you fuck up? Not some newfound sense of morals, was it? Definitely not my looks…”

“It was you,” he says simply. “Just you.”

 _Please don’t be lying_ , some still coherent part of her thinks (the incoherent side is drowning in those dark, guarded eyes). _Please don’t be lying._


	3. Just the beating of hearts, like two drums in the grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This yo-yo's between kind of sweet and pretty dark and I don't really know how to sum it up... I just needed to write another chapter, so here it is. Have fun!

“It’s raining again,” Darcy comments. An attempt to counter the growing silence. She blushes for some inane reason, and Loki pretends not to notice. He doesn’t say anything in return. He feels no pressing urge to quell the emptiness that Darcy finds so stifling. They are both far beyond the reach of social niceties now: a killer and his hostage.

They aren't fitting roles – Darcy doesn’t play a convincing victim, and the entire situation is defined by Loki’s _failure_ to kill rather than his propensity for it. And yet Loki feels somehow obligated to cling to such distinctions. To label Darcy ‘accomplice’ is to debase her, to diminish her virtue when her sole sin is being alive. 'Friend,' meanwhile, is a presumption that Loki won’t allow himself. So a hostage she remains.

And a killer and his _hostage_ have no need to suffer the delusions of polite society.

Darcy rattles her spoon against the inside of the cereal bowl, her food half-eaten. Sound for the sake of sound.

She’s trying to rile him up, and Loki refuses to give in. He watches her _taptaptap_ -ing with an air of detached observation as he imagines just how quickly he could still those fragile wrists. How easily he could paint that pale, nearly translucent skin a vivid purple. The thought should make him sick, yet he can’t push away the temptation to finish what he started. A couple swift movements, and he could have her pinned to the wall again, his hands – not trembling, this time – squeezing the air out of her windpipe. _‘Odinson through and through.’_

How long would it take? A minute? Two? Oh, she might struggle at first, hands scrabbling at his unyielding grip around her neck, but that never lasted long. Her eyes would go glassy, arms falling to her sides, face stained red from exertion… Loki has seen enough red: seeping through white dress shirts, drying under fingernails, splattering across the floor like a fucking Jackson Pollock painting. _Rising to her cheeks when she blushes, spreading down, down, down to the tops of her breasts..._

“Loki? You okay?”

He is jerked back to the present, now conscious of fingers curling tightly around his cup of tea, close to breaking it. Darcy flashes him a look of concern, and Loki releases his choke-hold on the poor ceramic mug. He feels his stomach lurch, and he looks away before Darcy can fix him with that clear blue gaze.

The tapping has stopped – a pale hand lets the spoon drop carelessly, metal clattering against wood. It's as though all Loki’s guilt is now manifested into five feet and four inches of indignant female, refusing to be ignored any longer.

_Is she here to save him or to damn him?_ (Is that truly what this is all about? Bartering for his soul in some cheap morality play?) So virtue has brushed against sin and left the devil corrupted.

Loki tries to suppress this nonsense. _Sentiment is a weakness_. _A contamination of reason._

_And yet look at you: still governed by it like some green boy,_ Odin’s voice mocks him.

Odin, who smiles beatifically down on his city like a Pope bathing his congregation in blood. Odin, who sees more with one eye than most men see with both wide open. Odin, Allfather, kingpin, master. A figure irreconcilable with the man Loki once called ‘father.’

_Odin, god among men._

But they are none of them gods: they count out lives like they’re chips at a poker table and pretend to have dominion over death. Loki understands better than the rest that he is the scythe, not the reaper. He is a tool, picked out of the gutter because he had use. What Loki once called ‘purpose.’

If they mean to be worshipped like gods, Loki will never kneel; for as long as sentiment rules, Odin gets only part of his devotion.

Loki Odinson might be the means to someone else’s end. (Loki Odinson went up in flames on an abandoned roadside.)

Loki Laufeyson belongs to no one, serves no one.

“Fine,” Loki-who-was-once-Odinson says roughly. “I’m fine.”

\--

 

_Well that was a great non-answer if ever I’ve heard one._ If he’s going with the ‘cold and aloof’ shtick again, so be it. Darcy scrapes her spoon along the bottom of her bowl just to watch Loki try to contain his reactions to the grating sound. It’s almost cute.

Brooding and mercurial wouldn’t normally do it for her. Darcy’s last boyfriend was Ian Boothby, for Christ’s sake. You couldn’t get further from mercurial if you dated a puppy. But Mr. Tall Dark and Silent carries it off effortlessly. He draws you in even as he pushes you away.

_“It was you. Just you.”_ She wasn’t sure what answer she wanted to hear until Loki spoke and said the right words; he uses his sincerity like a weapon. _Either that or he’s a really good liar._ It’s becoming difficult to see only the worst in him, and Darcy tries to reassure herself – _some reassurance_ – that this is just Stockholm syndrome or something else featured on Criminal Minds.   _Because no_ way _are you crushing on a member of the mob._

When Loki announces that he’s going (‘out,’ he doesn’t say where), she’s almost relieved to have the cottage to herself.

Now that almost a day has passed and they’re still planted in Newcastle like sitting ducks, Darcy is having her doubts. If they fail – ' _when_ they fail' is a dark cloud looming on the horizon – the only matter she'll need to worry about is _how_ she dies. Part of her hopes that Loki will have some radical change of heart and off her himself. It wouldn’t be fair to him, she knows, but Darcy thinks it would be easier if _he_ did it than if it were one of Odin’s nameless thugs. She might even be able to forgive him. _No. That kind of thinking gets you nowhere, Lewis. What you need is a Plan B for_ not _dying, okay?_ Reconciling herself to the inevitability of death and the fleeting nature of existence would be easier.

Darcy gets to doing the only thing she knows how when confronted with a problem: she makes a mind-map.

_What are you doing? Drafting an essay?_ Her conscience has a point. Darcy sits back to analyse each bubble of text. ‘Murder attempt.’ ‘Disappearance.’ ‘Shitty breakfast.’ A sad list. _All roads lead…_ to nowhere, apparently. The centre is blank, an empty space surrounded by confused half-thoughts scribbled onto a napkin. She’s all questions and no answers. The bits and pieces of information that she does have can only reassure her of one thing: they’re fucked.

Darcy abandons her mind map and decides to explore the cottage instead.

Despite the creepy white sheets covering every possible surface in the cottage, nothing seems to be more than a couple years old – and there’s even a functioning generator and running water. _Well, let it not be said that Loki Laufeyson was unprepared._ In fact, it’s scary just how prepared he is.

It has only begun to hit her, what sort of world her father is involved in. One where a briefcase full of money portions out the worth of a life, and the only thing you can trust anyone to do is betray you. Darcy isn’t sure he can truly navigate it. He isn’t ruthless; just proud. _Proud and stupid_. Not daughterly sentiments, but then, Mr. Lewis has never been exactly fatherly. It occurs to Darcy that he cares less about her than Loki does.

Best not to think about that, though, especially when the presence of hot water means the possibility of having a soothing, warm shower. One without centipedes scurrying over the cracked floor tiles and ‘Call for a good time’ numbers written in Sharpie on the wall..

(There are even multiple brands of soap and shampoo in the bathroom. It’s like Loki’s running his own B&B or something. One where there’s only _one_ bed, and instead of a continental breakfast, you get dry cereal and a mug of tap water. Not 5-star, then.)

\--

“Nicholas.”

Loki has found a small clearing near the cottage, close enough that he can still see the front door through a curtain of green foliage, and he watches the porch like a hawk as static fills his ear. An ideal escape wouldn’t hinge on a single phone call, but none of Loki’s contingency plans involved flying a scared young woman out of the country, and the future isn’t brimming with better, brighter options. So New York it is.

_Besides, the Allfather’s only words were to ‘get her out of the picture.’_ And America is certainly out of the picture, he reasons. Finding loopholes is what he does best.

“Loki Laufeyson.” The voice on the other the end of the line is terse. “It’s been a while. That long-distance charge must be a bitch.”

“I like to show I care,” Loki answers, his lips twisting humourlessly. “You didn’t change your personal number, I see. Going soft in your old age?”

Fury snorts derisively.

“Still a smart-ass after all this time. But if what I heard is true, I’m not the one who’s going soft. Lewis giving you London boys too much trouble? Or are you just planning a hostile takeover of Newcastle?” _GPS tracking be damned_. Not that it matters at this point.

“Actually, this is more of an _independent_ venture.”

A sigh, then the clinking of ice in a glass.

“What do you need?”

Loki keeps his answer brief: two seats on a plane to New York. No questions asked, no papers required. He speaks smoothly, like this is a perfectly normal request. He can practically convince himself of it; his heartbeat lies for him, thumping steadily as the words flow past his lips.

Fury is not quite so calm.

“You want a _what_?”

“A plane, Nicholas. A plane.” Loki’s tone remains neutral, still not betraying the slightest hint of just how badly he’s fucked up. Or the fact that _Darcy Lewis_ is involved. The less Fury learns about Darcy, the better. “I need to give England a wide berth for a little while. Maybe all of Europe, actually.”

He hears a sharp inhale. Fury has to know that Loki running can only mean one thing.

“Oh, no. _Hell_ no. Laufeyson, tell me you haven’t pissed off the motherfucking Allfather.”

\--

Darcy has just stepped out of the shower when she hears the front door slam shut.

_Loki?_ She wants to call out, but something makes her refrain from alerting anyone to her presence. It’s the sort of thing that wouldn’t even have occurred to her a couple days ago. Now she sees a new threat lurking in every shadow.

The floorboards squeak as footsteps move closer, toward the bathroom. Toward her.

_Intruder_ , her brain shrieks at her. An absurdly detailed mental WatchMojo countdown of the Top Ten Ways You Could Be Murdered Right Now starts playing as Darcy’s body – more interested in _not fucking dying_ – jumps into ~~action~~ the closet. The door refuses to shut behind her, staying ever so slightly cracked open, and Darcy exiles herself to the furthest back corner to avoid the sliver of light shining onto the shelves of toiletries.

_If there is a God… Please,_ please _let me live just a little while longer._ The naive idea of serenely accepting her death evaporates immediately. _Not yet._

Darcy wraps herself in a fluffy white towel, shivering. Rapidly cooling water drips between her shoulder blades and down her back, and she holds her breath as the steps halt outside the door to the bathroom.

A knock.

She exhales slowly, swallowing hard. On the one hand, no self-respecting murderer would be so polite. On the other hand, well, Darcy can’t know that.

_Click._ The door knob turns, followed by the harsh sound of shoes hitting the tiled floor, echoing in the small bathroom. And then her vision is blocked out by a dark shadow directly in front of the closet.

The shadow is reaching for her, amorphous limbs coming closer –

Darcy screams.

“Miss Lewis?”

Loki tilts his head curiously as he offers Darcy his hand, palm up. _Oh God, this is embarrassing._ One arm wrapped around herself, clutching her towel firmly to her chest, Darcy extends the other toward him, still-wet fingers shaking as she allows herself to be led out of her little hiding spot.

“If I might ask…”

“You may not,” Darcy grumbles.

Loki laughs – she thinks it’s the first time she’s seen a genuine smile cross his face, and Darcy’s eyes dart back to her bare feet, squashing down the impulse to stare at his lips. _For that way is fraught with peril… and desires that are better left not thought of._

“ _You’re_ in a good mood,” she notes accusingly, tugging her hand back. _This is humiliating enough without you smirking at me about it._

“I suppose you could say that,” Loki answers, equivocal as ever. A beat. “You aren’t.”

Not a question.

“Well, while you were out doing goodness knows what...” Darcy’s voice cracks. That’s what gets her, really. The fact that he won’t tell her what he’s doing. She isn’t part of this world. Darcy isn’t accustomed to this need-to-know basis. She ingests information, consumes it rapidly and viciously. That’s the point of _research_ : no itching questions, no ‘late nights at the office’ and meetings with ‘business associates’ who aren’t actually in business (not any respectable kind, at least). “I was scared,” she mumbles finally. “I wasn’t sure it was you at the door.”

“Miss Lewis.” He sounds serious now. “Do you trust me?”

Darcy hesitates for a moment. _Trust?_ It’s a dangerous question. She’s already gravitating toward him; feet moving her, unbidden, a touch closer. _Like a moth to a flame._

Things never end well for the moth.

“No,” she lies.

Loki tilts his head as his eyes assess her lazily. Her cheeks flush, and when their eyes meet, she feels like a deer in headlights, incapable of turning away from those dark green eyes _burning_ into her.

“Darcy.” He says her name like an illicit thing, a secret between lovers. _Lovers? You_ wish _, Lewis._ “I won’t let anything happen to you. I swear it.”

“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I never do,” Loki answers, and it sounds so genuine that Darcy wishes she had enough of a self-preservation instinct to truly distrust him. “And _you_ make it... impossible.” A shadow of something – _guilt? –_ passes over his face.

“Don’t put me on a pedestal,” Darcy whispers. “I don’t want a knight in shining armour.”

Loki’s lips twist as if at some private joke.

“Oh, I don’t intend to be one.”

\--

He’s seen that look before; the slightly widened eyes, the parted lips, thighs clenched together. A knight in shining armour? Oh, the things Loki would do to her given half the chance… he could hardly call himself knightly.

“Darcy, you’re dripping,” Loki says, letting the double entendre hang in the air.

“What?” she squeaks. He gestures at the towel with a smirk, inwardly shaking his head at the rush of validation he feels when Darcy turns a lovely shade of fuchsia. “Oh, right. I’ll, um… I’ll go get dressed.”

She doesn’t move.

“What is it?”

“That’s twice now that you’ve called me Darcy.”

Loki blinks. _Shit._

“I-”

“Looks like you’re getting fond of me,” Darcy says with a small smirk. _Fond? No, that’s not quite the word._ But when Loki had thought that she might have been hurt, that she’d somehow gotten herself captured… it wasn’t fondness he felt, but it was something. “Loki Laufeyson.” She seems to be testing the name on her lips. He wants to ask if she likes how it sounds. If it sounds better than ‘Odinson.’

He wants to tell her how much he’d rather hear her _moaning_ it as she lies beneath him, hair strewn out across white pillows, skin flushed. Or uttering it like a mantra while she rides him, his hands on her hips as she undulates above him, a symphony of quickening heartbeats and soft gasps that drowns out the worry and the fear, the thoughts about planes and getaways and the ever-present shadow of Odin Allfather.

Instead Loki clears his throat.

“Supper?”

“Oh. Yeah. Of course,” Darcy mutters haltingly. “I love dry cereal.”

She quickly slips past him, bare feet slapping against the floor as she heads for the bedroom.

“Darcy,” he calls out. She whips around, wet hair sending water droplets flying everywhere. “I like calling you that.”

“I like it, too,” she answers, and Loki turns around before she can see the grin breaking across his face like he’s in year eight and he’s just asked a girl to a dance.

_You’re an idiot, Laufeyson._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Remember, kudos and comments keep me writing - and feedback is always appreciated :)


	4. This is suicide, but you can't see the ropes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy and Loki are both sad traumatized babies and it's entirely the author's fault. Smut ahead, but first, cold-blooded murder. Don't say I never did anything for you.

Loki quickly tamps down the feeling rushing over him: lust, he names it, because anything more would be folly. But if only Darcy realized – because she is _Darcy_ , now, and how that little intimacy throws everything off balance – Loki might not be falling for her, not yet, but he _could_. And he doesn’t have that luxury, not with his kinds of ambitions. Loki hisses as he rubs at his eyes, trying to wipe away the image of those pale shoulders, trickles of water sliding over delicate collarbones.

Self-control has never been his strength.

This brief flirtation, in the comfort of their seclusion (what a cruel illusion of safety), is a temporary reprieve from the inevitable. Odin will certainly be after them by now, and he will make his power known; it simply happens sooner rather than later.

The knock at the door should come as no surprise.

The Allfather has never been blind to the simple fact that Loki is not _his_ in the way that Thor or the others may be. Loki’s loyalty is certain to last only as long as it serves him to be loyal, his dislike for following orders obvious from the beginning. Odin has no doubt sent a messenger to check up on Loki; an unsubtle reminder that, whatever allowances he may be extended, Loki is still a pawn. And a pawn can have no secrets from the king.

Loki glances down the hallway, confirming that one secret, at least, remains just that. A trail of Darcy’s wet footprints leads to the (firmly shut) bedroom door, and Loki pauses only a moment before taking measured steps toward the threshold.

“What?” he says boredly, tugging the door open and hiding his relief – Odin mustn’t be too suspicious, if this young recruit is all he’s sent – behind a practised air of disinterest.

The boy can’t be over twenty, the frightened whites of his eyes bright against tired bags and unblemished brown skin.

“I'm Baldur-”

“The Allfather sent you,” Loki interrupts in a voice that communicates just how little he cares who stands before him.

Baldur gulps, but his posture remains admirably relaxed. It would almost be believable, were it not for the slight twitch of his right hand, knuckles bumping against the comforting weight of a gun concealed in his jacket pocket. _No finesse_ , Loki notes, but then again, the Allfather emphasizes results, not the means of getting them.

“I was told I would find you here.”

The boy’s name is familiar: Baldur. Odin’s new favourite. Loki’s _replacement_ , if the idiots Thor surrounds himself with are to be believed.

Loki, of course, knows better.

“Here I am.”

He lends a particularly venomous smoothness to his voice, smirking when it makes the boy stutter. It’s almost enough to assuage this particular hit to his pride: that Odin knew where to look, that perhaps he had even known all along.

Of course, the Allfather has always kept a close eye on him, no doubt out of the old man’s sense of self-preservation – what others falsely perceive as favouritism. Even as a child, Loki wasn’t malleable enough. Oh, he was easily trained; vengeful and haunted as he was, the boy was eager to learn, eager to please. A _natural_. Twelve years old, and Loki already knew what it meant to be a tool. He hadn’t missed the gleam in the Allfather’s eye as he first watched the boy unload shot after shot into a painted target, not a single bullet straying outside of its crisp black border.

Loki took to disappearing, driving Odin’s men mad when he returned to the townhouse days later with scuffed shoes and excuses that flew readily off his tongue. He effortlessly rubbed shoulders with the public school boys, was already enrolled in one of the preparatory schools downtown, and yet his posh accent belied the streets he knew best, the dingy apartment in Brixton above a boarded-up bookshop where Odin found him. The boy had no connections, no remaining ties to that world, and _that_ was all the Allfather cared about.

He never knew much of anything about Loki’s life _before_ : not the couple across the hall who babysat him when Mother had company; not David, who cursed the name of Margaret Thatcher in impressive expletive-ridden rants over breakfast, or Arthur, who told him to “stop defiling the ears of innocents and drink your coffee, you clod,” pressing a kiss to David’s gaunt face and winking at Loki. He didn’t know about Mother, either, not the whispery silk robes she wore those mornings, or the smell of cologne still clinging faintly to the cushions in the living room underneath the harsh tang of air freshener. Loki held those stories close to his chest, keeping them like secrets.

“Loki?”

He blinks, registering that the voice he heard was distinctly _not_ coming from the boy in front of him.

_Fuck._

Baldur’s hand is already dipping into his pocket, and Loki’s instincts kick in while his mind lags in catching up with the situation, already grabbing the boy by the elbows, spinning him until Baldur is immobilized against him, a knife under his chin. Loki looks up to see a terrified-looking Darcy standing at the end of the hall.

“I thought I heard… voices,” she trails off, and Loki is caught between wanting to throttle her and being endeared by how innocent she still is to all of this. _Not for long_.

Baldur is struggling in his arms, and Loki sighs. What’s one more life when his hands are already soaked in blood?

“This is a regretful turn of events,” he murmurs conversationally and tightens his grip on the blade in his hand. “I have to do this, you understand.” The boy squeezes his eyes shut.

\--

“I would recommend looking away, Miss Lewis.”

This isn’t _her_ Loki – his voice has gone cold and flat, his eyes shuttered. It’s a swift departure from the almost-smile she caught crossing his face earlier, and Darcy takes a step back as she notices the young man – hardly a man at all – struggling in Loki’s hold.

“What-”

Darcy hesitates. Loki doesn’t. There isn’t a shred of indecision in his actions, just the clean mechanical drag of the knife moving across some boy’s throat, a straight red line. Darcy shuts her eyes a second too late, the image already burned onto her retinas.

“I- You-”

There’s a buzzing in her ears, and when she looks down, her hands are shaking.

“Bleach,” Loki says in the same efficient tone from before, seeming apathetic that there is a (now) dead body in his arms. “I'll deal with… this.”

Darcy stares, a little lost, at the front door long after Loki has dragged the body away. He hadn’t even _flinched_. Blood on his hands and spattered on his white shirt, dripping like rain, collecting in the cracks of floorboards...

Darcy has scrubbed the floor three times already, until all she can smell is bleach and her eyes are watering.

How could she be naive enough to forget that she’s on the run with a _killer_? She has allowed herself to feel attraction for the man sent to murder her. How her stomach roils at the thought that even now she wants him, aching for his touch even as she reminds herself that this is someone who has killed and will kill again… and what does it say about her that up until a moment ago, that knowledge didn’t even faze her?

She needs to get away from here, but not yet – not when Loki could find her even more easily than all Odin’s men combined.

First Loki needs to be removed from the equation – her mind flits to the gun she knows he has left unattended in the living room, hidden in that black bag under the coffee table – and then she’s running away in that car and fucking Thelma-and-Louise-ing it out of here if she has to, outrunning her bad decisions before another one can catch up with her.

She’s not being rational, she knows.

She doesn’t quite think she cares anymore.

\--

The smell of gasoline and smoke clings to him, the wreckage of a staged motorcycle crash crackling behind him and casting shadows against the forest floor as Loki drops to his knees and vomits onto the damp earth, heaving until his stomach is empty and his throat burns.

\--

“Darcy?”

Loki sounds like himself again, and this is perhaps even more unnerving than the sight of him sitting in the living room, calmly tugging a blood-stained shirt over his head. She shouldn’t be looking at him like this, shouldn’t permit herself to follow the clench and release of muscles as he wipes his hands on the once-white fabric.

Perhaps it will make the next part easier, at least.

Her legs are trembling a little at the cold draft in the room. She’s dressed only in boxers and a thin T-shirt that she’s quite sure leaves very little to the imagination. Her nipples pebble at the cold, and she catches Loki’s eyes dragging over her in a way that he doesn’t normally allow himself. (She has caught him looking, sometimes, but his gaze is a little more blatant now, his control slipping.)

Forcing herself to stand steady, Darcy resists the urge to flinch at the cool metal of the gun rubbing against the small of her back.

“Come here,” Loki murmurs, his lips quirking in a smile that looks almost coolly amused. Darcy isn’t sure which Loki this is anymore, but she’s already walking forward with a confidence she doesn’t feel, dropping into his lap. She lets out a gasp when warm, warm hands land on her thighs, her body leaning into his touch against her better wishes (and how _dare_ he be a comfort when he is the most dangerous thing Darcy has ever faced). “Is this what you want?”

Darcy swallows nervously, her previous bravado dying out as she is hit by the reality of her purpose here. Too late to back down now.

“Make it go away,” she answers, and that must be good enough for him, because then Loki is cradling her face in one hand, leaning up and pressing oh-so-delicate kisses to her cheek, the corner of her mouth, the dip of her cupid’s bow. He’s _teasing_ her. Or daring her, perhaps. Pushing her to respond, to be the one to take this further.

Darcy slams her mouth against his, too impatiently to be anything but sloppy, but then he’s gentling the kiss again, lips tugging – but not biting down – on her bottom lip, coaxing her to open up to him.

For a second she can lose herself in this, forget that there is a Plan here, that she must see this through. But Loki’s other hand has rejoined its partner, stroking along the curve of her neck. It’s a dangerous mimicry of something more frightening, his thumb dipping into the hollow between her collarbones; if he tightened his grip even a fraction...

But his hands are moving south, fingertips tracing electrifying trails over her breasts, over the divots between each of her ribs, coming to rest at her waist.

She has to act, now: his hands are already worrying the edge of her waistband.

“Is this what you want?” Loki repeats, a certain tension in his voice now, and Darcy doesn’t have a chance to react before he’s twisting under her. Belatedly, she registers the sting of cold metal dragging across her back, and then the gun is in Loki’s hand. “Hm?”

Darcy tries to wriggle away, but Loki has one arm trapping her against his chest. Then he turns the gun in his hand, laying the end of the barrel against his bare skin, over his heart.

“Couldn’t join the ranks of the damned?” he whispers, and Darcy wraps her hand around the proffered handle as her eyes meet his.

“ _Stop_ it.”

\--

He’s playing with her, at first. Loki would be stupid to expect Darcy not to try something - she’s far too _righteous_ not to. That she chooses to seduce him is… unanticipated, but it is a smart move, Loki allows: on anyone else, it would likely have worked. Perhaps he permits the farce to continue too long, but he is sick of denying himself: he has betrayed and killed and risked everything for her, and if this is all he gets, Loki has never pretended not to be selfish.

“You're magnificent,” he breathes.

“Don't do that. Don't toy with me.” Darcy’s hands are surprisingly steady on the gun (and oh, how proud he was when he saw that his bag had been rifled with, exasperated yet oddly content that she wasn't defeated, not yet). Of course, Loki could easily disarm her again, but that's hardly the point.

“We have already established that you're in no danger from me.” A stretch of the truth, there, though a necessary one. “You have nothing to gain from killing me… in fact, you stand to lose quite a bit if you do, seeing as I'm your way out. And yet,” Loki sighs. “Sweet, moral Darcy Lewis can't let a murderer walk. You’re in a bit of a quandary, aren’t you?” He laughs bitterly. “If you kill a killer, what does that make you?” Darcy looks sick. (He remembers what this felt like. He remembers pulling the trigger.) “You want me to make this easy for you: to show remorse for my actions, or provide justification for them. But I will give you neither. I did what needed to be done. We can't all be _good_.”

Darcy is, though. And Loki is almost covetous of that goodness.

“You can’t talk your way out of this.”

Her voice is tight, but Loki feels the pressure on the gun let up, pressing less insistently into his chest.

He won’t tell her he did it for her. (He did.) That would simply be cruel.

Her cheeks are still flushed, and Loki knows it’s wrong of him, but he can’t resist shifting his hips just enough to push his hardness up against her, making her lips part in a shaky breath.

“Why should I have to?”

“Tell me it’s not my fault,” Darcy whispers, her voice finally cracking. And _oh_ , _sweetheart_ , no. No, that wouldn’t do at all.

“Never,” Loki swears, almost violently. He wraps his fingers around the gun, reflexively checking the safety before tossing it aside. “This has never been your fault.”

He repeats the words, softly, as Darcy drops her hands into her lap, fists curling in the hem of her shirt. He will not let her break. But to see her _bend_ , to give in, to crumble into him: it would be a thing of beauty, he thinks.

It is.

\--

This feels nothing like surrender: such a thing would necessitate equal footing, and Darcy isn’t fooling herself. Loki hadn't even bothered pretending to be threatened by her.

There is another silence stretching between them, Loki’s eyes staying trained on her as he untangles her fingers one by one, lifting her hands and placing worshipful kisses on each knuckle. He’s being painstakingly gentle, and all at once Darcy doesn’t want gentle. She can feel his want pressing against her, and the answering wetness between her thighs. His slow, careful movements belie the tension she sees in his shoulders, the wildness that turns his pupils into dark whirlpools, tempting her in deeper. _Fall_ , they ask her. _Fall in._

“I want to,” she says, and Loki stills.

“What do you want?”

Darcy tugs on the hem of her shirt, slowly lifting the fabric to reveal the milky pale skin beneath. Loki hisses, palms ghosting over the newly exposed skin of her hips.

“Want you,” Darcy breathes, and ignoring a stab of insecurity, she pulls her shirt over her head and lets it drop onto the floor. Loki doesn’t move. Fuck, he isn’t doing _anything_ and Darcy won’t beg, she _won’t_ , but he’s looking at her like something hungry, like he wants her but he still isn't going to touch her, and it’s not fair. “Please,” she says, or starts to say, when that final concession is smothered by a brutal, claiming kiss.

Loki’s hands are on her now, rougher this time, like with each sweep of his palms, he is marking where Darcy begins and ends. She is a hollow girl, empty and achingly aware of it. Dulled nerve endings awaken with each bruising press of Loki’s fingers across her skin.

There is a darkness in him that turns his kisses biting, his touches a shade harsher than passionate. Darcy drinks his sin off his lips and pours all her wracking, guilty desire into him. _Deep calls unto deep_. Loki wrenches her closer until there is no space left between them, bodies pressing against each other like mismatched puzzle pieces forced into unity. His hand snakes between their chests, taking a nipple between two fingers and twisting until Darcy squirms, letting out a weak moan.

“That good?” Loki hums.

“Cocky _bastard_ -” Darcy retorts, but she can’t deny how her face is flushing, breath coming in soft pants.

Loki smirks at that, but then Darcy pivots her hips, the feeling electric even with the friction of too many clothes between them, and the man’s composure finally _snaps_. He lifts Darcy up by the hips and tugs that last maddening piece of fabric down past her thighs, finally flinging it under the couch. When she settles back over him, Darcy reaches under the waistband of his sweatpants and wrapping her hand around his length. (If nothing else can be said for sweatpants, Darcy supposes that ease of access is an advantage.)

Her thighs are trembling ever so slightly as she lines him up against her entrance, but Loki’s whispered “Go slow” only prompts Darcy to stubbornly sink down all at once, wincing at the sudden fullness of it. She’s not stretched enough, and as his cock pushes deeper into her, Darcy instinctively clenches down, too-tight muscles trying to shove him back out.

“Keep going,” she orders, and Loki’s eyes are too knowing by half, too _pitying_. Still, he doesn’t hesitate to buck his hips and bury himself inside her, _hard_ , sweat beading on his brow. It hurts, and Darcy doesn’t care, fuck, she just doesn’t care. Legs cradling Loki’s hips, Darcy anchors herself on his shoulders, using the leverage to lift herself up and fuck back down onto him. Loki muffles his moans into Darcy’s neck, leaving damp spots against her skin. There’s a kind of pleasure-pain, an inexorable hurt that dissolves into pure liquid heat, as Loki thrusts faster, picking up the pace even as Darcy loses her stamina, her hands slipping down his sweat-slick chest.

“Are you going to be good for me?” Loki whispers hoarsely. “Going to come on my cock?”

“Don’t patronize.” Darcy bites his shoulder in retaliation, nails dragging red marks down unscarred skin.

“So you don’t want to be good?”

Loki’s laughing at her, she’s sure of it, and Darcy vindictively tightens around him, if only to stifle his arrogance, because just because he’s figured out that this does it for her doesn’t mean that she has to admit it.

“I _am_ good.” (She still wants him to say it, though.)

“Oh, darling. You are. So. Good.” He’s barely even pulling out, deliberately pounding against the same traitorously sensitive spot until Darcy is sent reeling and seeing stars, coming so fast she hardly even realizes.

“Oh,” she exhales, her heart flinging itself against her ribcage over and over, like it’s just remembered how to beat, punishing and _alive_.

Loki hasn’t finished, though, and Darcy flinches at the popping sound of his cock pulling out before she’s being manhandled onto her hands and knees, slipping on the leather cushions.

“Good, and precious, and _mine_ ,” he’s babbling, cock pushing back into over-sensitized flesh as his chest molds itself to her back. “So good,” he growls, and she can’t come again, not this soon, but Darcy can feel him _right there_ , in the pit of her stomach, and one of his hands is stroking over her lower belly, pressing against the line of his cockinside her.

“Loki-”

His fingers are dipping lower, rubbing at her clit furiously, as patient as he is intent.

“Come,” Loki whispers at last, and she’s suddenly, impossibly, tensing around him again, his cock pulsing inside her, warm and wet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look who did a thing... after almost 2 years...

**Author's Note:**

> Alright well this is what happens when I make stupid photosets about AUs that then niggle at me until I start writing... I don't even have an excuse for myself anymore.


End file.
